A Match Made in Bed (Spinster Heiresses #2)(7)
She must keep those words in mind.
Chapter 3
The dining room was set for forty with gilt-edged plates and silver centerpieces. The light of what seemed to be hundreds of candles reflected off the place settings and glassware. Footmen dressed in forest green velvet and cream satin stood ready to pull out chairs. It was all a bit much, and yet emphasized the power of the House of Camberly and paid honor to the importance of the company.
Soren also knew this party was costing Camberly more blunt than he could afford to spend. He’d complained to Soren about his grandmother’s extravagances. Apparently there was no reasoning with Minerva. She wanted what she wanted, and it was up to the Duke of Camberly to see she received it. Soren was glad his mother wasn’t as reckless. She might be cold but she wasn’t a spendthrift.
The guests flowed around the table searching for their names on the place cards at each setting. The scent of cooked meats and breads was in the air, and the convivial atmosphere was enhanced by the fact that everyone in this room believed he or she had been invited as a Person of Importance. They mattered.
Cassandra had removed her hand from Soren’s arm as quickly as she was able. All without so much as a full glance his way.
Soren watched her look for her seat. The duke was naturally at the head of the table, with Miss Reverly on one side and Lady Bainhurst on the other. Disappointment crossed Cass’s face when she noticed. She acted as if she’d hoped she was nearer the head of the table and then realized that there was only one seat unclaimed, the one next to Soren.
She straightened her shoulders and accepted her chair assignment with the stoic grace of a French noble heading to the gallows.
Soren took it upon himself to pull out her chair.
“Please, allow me,” he said.
She hesitated as if debating taking the chair or bolting for the door. The dowager and other ladies were already seated. The gentlemen now waited upon Cassandra. Even the servants, queued up in the doorway with trays of soup dishes in their hands, waited for her.
“Thank you,” she murmured, and sat with the weight of an anvil. As a matter of form, he tried to give the chair a little push toward the table. It didn’t budge. She must have had her heels dug in. She was doing it on purpose, another silent message that she was not pleased he was one of her dinner companions, as if her iciness hadn’t been enough.
Of course, once her bum hit the seat, the gentlemen at the table were free to take theirs and—finally!—all eyes were off the spectacle Cass was making of herself.
And of Soren, since he was the gallant performing a servant’s job.
Why the devil had he thought to do a bit more than he should? She was making her feelings toward him very obvious.
Several raised their eyebrows at him and more than one smirked in a knowing way. Yes, all the world knew he was making a play for the Holwell Heiress. And her rudeness was ensuring they knew he did it because he didn’t have any other choice. Damn it all.
Servants rushed forward with the soup course. Footmen began filling wineglasses. Good, because he needed a drink.
The eating started. He sampled his soup. “Ah, this is very superb, is it not?” He spoke to those around him in general.
Sitting on Cass’s other side, Lord Rawlins nodded. “Camberly always sets a good table.” Across from Cass, the almost deaf Lord Crossley nodded as if he agreed. Soren doubted he’d heard a word.
“I think it needs salt,” the widowed Marchioness of Haddingdon pronounced. She was seated to Soren’s right. She had been quite the thing in her day. She still dressed the part in bold colors, a purple turban with jewels and two huge plumes, each the size of a full-grown ostrich. Her bodice was cut so shamelessly low her aged, ample bosoms threatened to spill over. “I need salt,” she repeated, speaking to the air.
A footman stepped forward, picked up the salt dish that was right in front of her, and sprinkled her soup with a silver spoon. She peered down to see what he was doing, leaving Soren to change his opinion from thinking her too haughty to salt her own food, to suspecting she probably possessed a very strong pair of spectacles vanity prevented her from wearing.
“Is it better, my lady?” the footman asked.
She tasted the soup with a smack of her lips. “Yes, that is fine. Much better.” The footman stepped back.
“And what do you think, Miss Holwell?” Soren asked, keeping his tone formal and polite. “Is the soup to your liking?”
She wanted to ignore him. For the briefest moment, resentment flashed in her expressive eyes. She looked away. “It is good.”
Well, at least she’d acknowledged him.
But then her nose wrinkled. She took a sniff. “Do I smell camphor?” She looked at Soren’s jacket, her brows puzzled together.
Lady Melrose, a birdlike woman who was the dowager’s sister and seated across from Soren, tested the air. “I don’t smell anything.”
“I don’t, either,” Lady Haddingdon agreed before taking another slurp of her soup.
But Soren could smell it.
When he’d first purchased the jacket, it had reeked of camphor, a popular agent against moths. He’d given it a good airing out and had already worn it to several balls and dinner parties without complaint, and yet he’d always been aware of the slightly medicinal odor. Especially the day after an event. Camphor had come to symbolize his bloody empty pockets.